Chris's Santa Monica bungalow hummed with the chaos of EA Sports FC 25 — controllers clicking, laughter bouncing off the walls, shouts erupting over missed shots, the TV flashing brilliant goals.
The couch was packed; somehow, Skyler ended up sitting on Dean's lap. She tried to focus on the match, but she could feel him beneath her — tense, unmoving, too aware of every shift she made. His "just a friend" claim from that morning suddenly felt like a cruel joke.
Dean leaned back, controller in hand, trying to look relaxed. But every time Skyler cheered a goal or twisted in excitement, her body brushed against him in ways that made it impossible to think straight. His throat went dry, his focus crumbling. The game blurred; all he saw was her.
Their eyes met for a second — too long, too heavy — before he looked away, pretending to adjust his controller.
Mia, sprawled on the floor with a soda in hand, caught something strange in the air. Dean's expression wasn't his usual focused smirk; it was softer, conflicted. Skyler must've noticed too because, a beat later, she slid off his lap, mumbling something about needing a drink.
Dean exhaled slowly, gripping his controller to ground himself. The match went on, but his head wasn't in it. The laughter around him felt distant — drowned out by the echo of Skyler's touch that still lingered like static.
By 9 p.m., the group's energy had faded. Empty cans, pizza boxes, and half-played matches littered the coffee table. Mia yawned. "I'm done for the night," she said, stretching.
Tony clapped Dean on the shoulder. "Chris and I are crashing here. You got a ride? Take Sky home, yeah?"
Dean nodded, his chest tightening.
He found Skyler curled on the couch, half-asleep, her hair falling messily over her face. "Sky," he said softly, nudging her shoulder. "Time to go."
She stirred, eyes fluttering open, voice drowsy. "Carry me," she murmured, a sleepy smile tugging at her lips as she reached out.
He hesitated. Then he carried her.
Her arms looped lazily around his neck as he lifted her, bridal-style. She was heavier than she looked — or maybe it just felt that way because of the weight in his chest. Outside, the cool Santa Monica air brushed against them, the streetlights painting silver lines across her face.
Dean glanced at her — peaceful, beautiful, so close — and something in him cracked. He smiled despite himself, a quiet ache blooming behind it. But fear followed, cold and sharp. He couldn't lose her. Loving her was the easiest thing in the world — and the most dangerous.
He eased her gently into the passenger seat of his Urus, careful not to wake her. As he shut the door, a voice called out from behind.
"Yo, Dean! I need a ride too," Mia said, stepping out of the house, her bag slung over her shoulder.
He nodded. "Yeah, sure."
She slid into the back seat, her tone casual but her eyes sharp — catching more than she let on. Dean started the engine, his focus on the road ahead.
Skyler slept beside him, the city lights gliding softly over her face. In the mirror, Mia leaned back, her gaze thoughtful, unreadable — a flicker of knowing hidden behind her calm.
Dean didn't notice.